Skin & Bones
by RestlessRuin
Summary: At the heart of District 9 the Poleepkwa are at the mercy of their human gatekeepers, and the traitors coerced into betraying their own kind. While the race begins in preparation for Christopher's impending return, Wikus is transported into the bizarre and exotic world of the Poleepkwa. Rated T for mild language.
1. Ch 1: Smother

**Disclaimer:** I don't own District 9! :(

* * *

For the past week Wikus had been surviving off very little. After MNU's fiasco, the whole world had converged on Johannesburg's door step. And from some higher powers he had managed each day after the other, hiding in the confines of one rickety shack in the heart of District 9.

The past few days however had been the worst. Wikus could only exert so much energy before having to take several hours to recover. He could push himself, stop and rest for at least an hour before grinding out the rest of his tasks. Scavenging after curfew with very little reward; it was surprising how far he had gone with the amount of morsels and scraps available.

Although, as it was he could barely sit up. Hunger ravaged inside his gut in painful waves, while his body ached from every joint; his skin - burning. If he moved too quickly he risked tearing the stretched tissues of his former body. He just lied there in his shack, trembling, scared of discovering new parts. Especially now in his most weakened and vulnerable state yet. With nothing besides the obscene details of flesh sloughing off, the pain, his mind was without boundaries. Hysterical moods swept from all corners from the pure joy of meeting death, towards the insufferable hope that there was still a chance he could survive this. And like the worm he felt he was; kept crawling regardless of the improbabilities surrounding him.

The thought of Tania was both a blessing and a curse. He couldn't decide whether it was worth having her suffer, or if it was too much to hope for that she could wait long enough for him to recover. In his once perfect world he had maintained appearances, a job, he was a man; but as it continued to fall away in pieces all he had was _her_. That subjective attachment, indescribable, personal and private.

Did it even exist, now that he was changing into this _thing_?

He cursed underneath his breathe, which sounded more like a small grunt because of his dry mouth and throat. Thinking at this point alone became too much effort. His breathing was labored and heavy, though so very slow and drawn. His burning skin crawled all over his body, consuming every nervous fiber. Everything was surreal and numb; the only thing tying him back to reality was his breathes. The tight recoil after every intake encouraged him to take one after the other- a mindless task that now become Wikus' primary focus.

Until his efforts came to a halt, and his eyes fluttered back into darkness; for once he had finally found respite.

* * *

When Wikus awoke he found himself in a state of shock. Immediately he became aware that he was not where he once was. This place, foreign, was all together sterile in its white ceiling and walls. He jerked his hands up, unconsciously kicking his feet at the same time to find them bound to the hard table underneath. With the incredible rise in his heart rate he started to scream, a scream so feral and wild that he freaked himself into a stuttered silence. He didn't recognize it, nor did he enjoy the slick tentacles trailing below his mouth or the hard skin that seemed to desensitize his sense of touch.

Why hadn't he just… died? How in God's name could he have endured the transformation? It wasn't even physically possible! His body couldn't have handled it! And yet…

There he was, with wide miss-matched eyes staring hard and wide into the ceiling with rasping breaths. It wasn't even _him_ anymore. This _thing_ that surrounded him- couldn't escape from _it_.

"Wikus."

The voice held authority, but this meant very little to Wikus. He was off, somewhere else.

"Wikus." A hand of some sort grabbed his wrist. The head that neared his vision was blocked out as anxiety and fear ripped through his senses. He didn't realize that the bindings had been released, let alone who had spoken to him.

"Please, Wikus. Listen to me, you are safe here…" These words were soft and steady. They finally drew his attention back. Wide, terrified eyes met the assumed stranger.

"Safe?" He tried saying, but at most a garbled muffle hit the air.

"Safe." The stranger repeated. But obviously this was a lie. He took advantage of the stranger's hesitance, propelling his legs off the table and tackling the individual to the ground. Before he could club the stranger to death, its hands locked onto his wrists midair. They struggled.

"Wikus, we came back! Don't you remember me?"

No, no and he didn't care. He was too angry, angry because he couldn't hit the stranger, couldn't see Tania; couldn't, didn't… there was nothing.

But those words and those eyes finally hit him.

_Oh God._

He pulled back, staring at him.

"It's Oliver, do you remember?"

Oliver had shifted upright and pulled himself away from Wikus, who had crawled back, sat and leaned against the table. A bright, hopeful gaze met Wikus; he could hardly hold it.

"Is- is that really you?" Wikus took a shallow breath.

"Oliver, little Oliver?"

A wiry smile crossed the alien's features, bright blue eyes alight.

"It's good to see you, Wikus." He couldn't believe it. Oliver had grown; light green exoskeleton, smooth and lean, adorned by pieces of cloth that served to cloth the young alien adult in a fine fit. But how long had it truly been? Where was Christopher?

Oliver sensed this. His appearance took on a more reserved, neutral state before finally getting up and offering the shocked Wikus a hand.

"It took father longer to get us home." Wikus had to steady himself with the table as he accepted the hand. "And even longer to find our way back to Earth; the space we left wasn't the same. Finding Earth took some time, as did gathering the resources for the rescue."

Wikus fell silent; and instead watched as Oliver activated a cupboard space. The wall glowed light fluorescent blue as it opened up to reveal a metallic vial.

"He-…" Oliver huffed. "He died on the way home." Wikus watched, at a complete loss for words. Being totally incapable of controlling himself, he felt pathetic for not reacting _more_ towards this news. It struck him regardless, even if he simply stood there, quiet.

A wave of guilt smothered his initial shock.

"I made him a promise, Wikus. And here it is."

The vial Oliver held; his _cure_. Wikus remained choked.

"How much do you remember?" He whispered. Oliver observed the hybrid carefully.

"The hijacking, the part where you almost left my father behind; everything." Curiously, Oliver followed Wikus' downward gaze.

"Wikus, what has happened has already passed. You ensured that my people would have a future, and for that I am more than grateful."

Wikus shook his head. "No, no… _Fook_ _me_… Fook!"

"Wikus."

"Don't, please! I don't deserve this. I'm not a fook'n hero." He shook as he gripped harder and harder on the bed's edge behind him. Wikus shut his eyes as the grief punctured into his soul. He was wicked, selfish, an abomination, traitor, _he deserved absolutely nothing_. Oliver's firm grip forced him to meet his eyes.

"Don't deny me the promise I made to my father, Wikus. You would do me a greater injustice by refusing to accept what you've sacrificed all these years for."

There was a long silence in the room. Each kept his gaze locked; Oliver firm and sure, Wikus afraid and listless. There was simply no substance that held Wikus, soulless and unbound.

Finally, Wikus went for the vial, hot forming tears approaching the edges of his eyes. He shoved the liquid past his mouth and down his throat; a mild burning sensation coated his esophagus.

Some of it must have gone the wrong way though, because he started coughing. And continued to do so, prompting him to keel over and start to choke. The world began to whirl away as he dropped to the floor.

* * *

"_Elijah…"_

Voices hovered above Wikus as he continued to sputter and gasp.

His upper body, man-handled to an incline, lacked the energy to resist the hands that pried him upright. When he came to there was a watery liquid lying across his chest and surrounding blankets. He couldn't quite make out the crouched brown-hued prawn at his feet, or the immediate creature to his left for several seconds.

"_Is it still alive?" _

"_Indeed he is,"_ the voice grunted. The same hands took his jaw and pried it open. By then Wikus had at least gained some sense of control and jerked his head away. Though this did very little, being so weak, the hand at his jaw remained where it was while the other hand fished around in his mouth.

"_Stop it, human. I am retrieving your teeth. It would be best if you remained still."_

"The _foook-?!_"

The prawn made an annoyed whirl as Wikus squirmed further.

"_There…" _

The prawn, pale blue retrieved two molars from Wikus' mouth.

"_Damn, fook'n prawns…_," Wikus cursed underneath his breath. The brown prawn hissed underneath his breath, while the blue one remained unmoved.

"_How much longer?" _

"_Soon…" _

Wikus continued to drift in and out consciousness. He didn't sleep, he couldn't. The pain kept him from reaching complete unconsciousness, and the lack of energy made it hard to concentrate on the sounds and smells sprawled out before him. He had lost all sense in his body, including most of his spatial awareness.

Though the ebbing dream echoed and repeated as the night went on. His company, forced to muffle his cries, reinforced the choking sensation that followed the end of the dream after each vial, one repeat after the other. The whole passing out portion afterwards was somewhat euphoric for Wikus, and became an effective way of shutting him up for a while.

Wikus preferred it.

* * *

As a child Wikus was shy. Being naturally quiet, he preferred to do things independently from group activities. This often made him a target for bullying. Boys were loud and rough, Wikus was articulate and gentle. He remembered coming home; how he locked himself in his room trying to avoid his father's accusatory eyes.

Perhaps his mother supported him, but it was never enough to keep him from falling into his own confusing world of isolation and distance from the other children. He resisted her emotional inputs as time went by, caving in and seeking advice only when he was truly lost. But that was just before adolescence hit, where he'd adapted to physical threats with verbal insults and gags. He could make the class laugh even if it made the jocks resent him even more; he'd learned to escape by simply out-running or out-smarting their pursuits. Well, _most _of the time.

In a social context though he never had what it _took_ to stand up for himself, or anyone else. It never crossed his mind to prevent someone from being roughed up by the local school bully. It was beneficial for him to follow the general consensus, even if he himself was one of those 'outsiders' by definition. And if a crowd had formed he found himself to be a part of it, even if it the kid on the floor could have very well been himself.

It was ironic for Wikus to have this similar pattern play out repeatedly throughout his life.

Even now, as he lied awake and in pain, he couldn't escape his fate. He had had his 'laughs', MNU the next cooperate venture, turning a blind eye to the creatures who found themselves at the mercy of mankind. He'd joined the crowd, and now it was his turn to live out a lifetime of beatings, including the ones he'd given himself. Having lost track of time as the transformation accelerated, Wikus pleaded with himself, with God, that he should just die instead. He didn't even recognize himself anymore, so bent on preserving his identity. But his pleas remained forsaken, and the grotesque hardened carapace that caged him further smothered his spirits.

Damn fook'n prawns, he thought. _Shit_.

There was a tube in his mouth now. Ever since he had lost his teeth and the ability to move independently, it resided there curling away from his face; purposely far from reach. He had also begun to recognize the prawns residing with him, especially the brown one. Wikus would open his eyes, barely conscious to find the brown prawn at his feet staring straight back after him. Unnerving Wikus, because those eyes were murderous in a way he couldn't quite explain logically, it appeared purely instinctual that this prawn would more than likely rip him a part given the choice.

There was another, who worked quietly and would answer the brown prawn's questions. Of many of these Wikus couldn't quite catch; whether he still had ears was questionable in of itself.

Of the numerous times that he had grasped enough consciousness, he drifted off.


	2. Ch 2: Metastasis

**Disclaimer:**_I do not own District 9._

* * *

For days Wikus had barely moved. His eyes would flutter, perhaps in an attempt to open them. His subconscious reactions permeated the air regardless, a blanket of fear, building within the shack and affecting its inhabitants.

It was dark when he finally came to, startled by a sharp, external jerk from his arm. His eyes, with some difficulty, met with his care taker. The prawn stopped, still, as it observed the hybrid's gaze. Wikus' eyes paused before finally darting towards the mangled piece of flesh dangling from the arm.

"_Why-."_ He stopped himself. Those were not words.

He lost his gaze and shot his eyes out ahead, wide, as he stifled a shaky breath. His other hand shook as it tried to reach his face, to feel it, to discern how much of him remained. But the blue, dusty prawn guided the weak appendage to his side, pressing it firmly against his chest.

"_I do not want my guest to be in alarm."_ It said firmly.

"_It will only make it worse."_ The prawn watched as Wikus pleaded mutely. His eyes spoke volumes that ranged between alarm and anxiety, until resolving into a determined look that would not settle for the prawn's advice. A low whirl indicated its unease.

"_I have a mirror, and I will hold it for you. But you must not touch; the process is delicate, and any malformation will make you distinct, recognizable."_ It paused.

"_Do you understand?"_ Wikus' eyes were able to signal by shifting up and down. The prawn nodded before getting up, and shifted a few things from the back of the shack to retrieve a jagged piece of mirror. He finally squatted down before sitting on his knees, holding out the mirror for Wikus.

It was unrecognizable to him. Antennae were budding out from his scalp, which no longer held hair; perhaps a few sparse strands in patches. His eyes had completely turned, his eyebrows giving way to the more industrious plating of the prawn. The bridge of his nose was now covered by the same material. The skin at his forehead stretched underneath the formed façade underneath, while his mouth and jaw remained in limbo between malformed human parts and protruding alien features. Besides the tube that ran past his mouth, he'd only received the two main tentacles on his face, while the others continued to bud and take appearance. It was also the first time he realized he wasn't really breathing through his mouth. The small quivering responses were from his _neck_, gills.

He would have started crying, but there was no such response from his body. A juvenile moan instead, escaped his mangled maw. He pushed the mirror away with his hand, hiccupping before another quiet wail exited into the open.

The prawn held the mirror close to itself, tense, as he scrutinized Wikus' reaction.

After a minute passed, the prawn put the mirror away and sat back down beside Wikus.

"_There is only a little more to go."_ Wikus, in the throes of his misfortune likely ignored the comment as his cries uncontrollably escaped in hushed, squeaky clicks and tones. Meanwhile, the prawn regained his focus, tending to Wikus' peeling skin with a pair of scissors. The prawn worked diligently as Wikus eventually fell back to sleep. Compared to the rest of the body, only patches of skin remained. So far the head and groin appeared in transition. It was tricky, there were certain areas that seemed to mold together from either end of human and alien parts.

Regardless, they were areas that needed seeing to. The prawn just wasn't sure how the hybrid would cope with it. At the rate it was going it would not survive long after the transformation. The prawn could sense the amount of revulsion Wikus had for himself by the depressing effects of his pheromones. While prawns held a capacity to ignore and repress these emotions, the prawn's new found responsibilities brought with it a growing attachment to the former human. One that remained purely justified by its duties alone.

The shack's door crooked open; Elijah appeared carrying two lamb legs. The prawn, whose name was Markus, frowned at this unexpected arrival.

"_Where did you get those?"_

"_I bought them."_

"_With what?"_ Elijah left the meat on the table before crouching down and staring at Wikus.

"_Money."_ Markus's gaze ran across Elijah's body briefly, before glaring after the meat and getting up. Elijah was what the humans termed the 'conventional prawn', really, his capacity to critically think appeared to be dampened in some respect. He was also aggressive by nature. It had also been a full year since he stopped selling cat food – a year of distancing himself from the gang life.

Displeased, Markus started preparing the meat regardless.

"_Was he crying again?"_

"_Yes."_ Markus paused, before stripping the legs of skin.

"_He cries in his sleep too."_

"_I've noticed."_

Elijah eventually took a seat at the corner of the room, closest to the door, watching and napping on and off. Markus eventually cut as much as the meat he could strip from the legs into small pieces, before grinding it down with what he had.

He set it aside in a plastic container, closing its lid and shuffling back to Wikus. It was already night, and curfew had already begun; in the morning he would wash Wikus. For now, the prawn was more than content with the hybrid asleep. The room had finally dispersed the thick air of sadness, and for once in a very long time a mood of neutrality had settled.

* * *

Markus had been able to remove the remaining parts without interrupting Wikus from his sleep the day after. What was once human was now completely alien. The carapace was a lighter green colour, yellowish in some areas. The antennae appeared normal, mandibles and limbs fine except for the missing digit on the one hand, and the mismatch of yellow and blue eyes.

The same eyes that had finally opened. Stopping what he had been doing, Markus knelt down and gripped Wikus' arm gently.

"_It's been three weeks since you fell unconscious in your shack. From what I can see your transformation is complete."_ The hand released Wikus, as Markus glanced across the hybrid's lying body.

"_You are going to have to start moving, or you will never get up."_ There was very little response as the hybrid seemed to have some difficulty keeping awake. After waiting for Wikus to resurface, a small mewl broke past the air. The incredible weight of Wikus' despair started its rampant cycle._ "Listen to me, human… You have no choice. This is your fate, and if you do not accept what has happened to you, then you will surely die."_ The prawn was exacerbated by the hybrid's initial response, irritated by the repetitious self-pity magnified by the pheromones circulating the air.

Yet the hushed cries persisted as the prawn drew back on its haunches, glaring at the 'human'.

And after a few more minutes, Markus had made his decision. It came with forcing Wikus up to a sitting position. By then he was quiet, even a little timid as he flinched and watched the prawn. Another few minutes were given, before the prawn faced Wikus again.

"_I'm going to help you up. I'll need you to lean against me and wrap your arms around me. As we move up I want you to push with your legs, okay?"_

Wikus nodded, as his heart spiked. He found it awkward as he leaned into the prawn, unfamiliar of the textures, or even the smell from being so close to these creatures. Wikus almost let go and pulled back, but he would rather have the ability to stand then lay on the ground all day. Despite how appealing it appeared, it was driving him partially mad.

The prawn's arms hooked underneath as it squatted in front of him. The creature was remarkably strong and steady, as it started to pull Wikus up. At first Wikus wasn't sure if he really had legs to begin with, there was 'nothing' there to feel. He wasn't sure if he was even controlling the lower half of himself.

He tried pushing as though he would as a human, but the legs underneath him would buckle, and he'd hang onto the prawn as he tried again. By now they were completely up. The prawn would waver whenever his legs lost their balance, but the grip remained strong. After a few failed attempts, Markus' voice broke open.

"_Do not force it. Try… 'letting it'. Let your body speak to you."_ Wikus leaned even more, feeling weak and lethargic as he cursed internally. Who the _fook_ was this prawn? After a few minutes of rest, he tried it once more. Reluctant to follow the prawn's advice but desperate enough to _try_, Wikus started slowly.

He took the time to 'feel' his legs out. It was uncomfortable because the sensation was so bizarre. He concentrated on the sense of touch with his feet first, which guided him from the bottom up. The alien joint that was 'bent backwards', and causing him and his brain most of the confusion was slowly connecting. Wikus placed gradual weight on the one leg before allowing the other to 'flesh' out.

Markus shifted just slightly to challenge Wikus. It was a successful first step, but the human parts of his brain clicked in with a fumble from the other leg. With a short recovery, Markus was able to guide Wikus to a chair. With a little bit of difficulty Wikus was sitting across from Markus, who remained standing.

"_Good… This is good."_ Wikus' gaze was nearly burning, which seemed to make the prawn smile somewhat.

"_I am Markus. The other one is Elijah. We know that you helped Christopher escape."_ Each pause was deliberate; the prawn watched closely, observing for any signs that Wikus might fade back into unconsciousness. So far, he was completely fine.

"_I have been assigned to care for you, by my people. We… have many questions to ask you. But I will let you recover before any of that. It will take some time for you to speak."_ By then, the anger and despair that was once rife towards the prawn seemed to have lost most of its fire. Wikus looked lost, as he stared into his hands and touched them.

He still felt human. But even as he tried to form words – as they should be formed – his mouth moved in strange ways. The tendrils displaced themselves slightly, mandibles – hesitant – as he explored the strange mechanisms of his throat. There were things that closed, almost like swallowing, where he continued to breathe regardless. The clicks would roll off the roof of his mouth easily, despite being nonsense in reality.

Lost in this bizarre body, he felt wrong. That it wasn't right. That he wasn't right.

His gaze finally lifted back to the prawn.

"_I must leave now. But I will be back in a few hours. Take this time to explore your body. It will help with your transition."_ It was so matter of fact that Wikus was consciously numb to these words. Except for the constant loop of thoughts running through his head; _this is wrong, I'm not right._

He watched as Markus left. The shack was suddenly a lonely place, even for its small space. It should have felt like there was 'something else' there, with him, but that someone was a dead thing to him. And he wanted nothing to do with it, except to ignore and escape from 'it'. But it surrounded him, whenever he moved or breathed. He was caged, he was caught, and he could do nothing, absolutely nothing about it.

* * *

**Notes:** _It's a smaller chapter; but I hope you enjoyed it regardless. There'll be more poleepkwa background coming up in later chapters. Tell me what you think! Constructive criticism or otherwise… _

_~Rue_


End file.
